


Even In Another Time

by Euterpein



Series: Pride Wives 2020 [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Established Relationship, F/F, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Museums, Poetry, Sappho (fl. 600 BCE) Poetry, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24541030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: After the apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale have settled comfortably into their new lives in the South Downs. A day trip to the British Museum starts a conversation about history, poetry, and the nature of their lives in the new world they've chosen. Poems are read and time is made up for, together.-------------------"Oh, angel." Crowley leaned over and placed a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, then her forehead. Her voice was almost pleading. "It just...it just means we have that much more time to make up for, that's all."Aziraphale nodded and smiled, a little sadly. "Not just for our own sake, I think. Kiss me?""Always," Crowley answered.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Pride Wives 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769128
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58
Collections: Pride Wives 2020





	Even In Another Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for week two of the Ineffable Wives server’s Pride Wives 2020 event! Week two’s prompt was “WLW Icon.” Beta-read by the lovely Jamgrl from the Wives server!

The conversation began in a museum. 

Not an unusual circumstance between the two of them, considering. They had been meeting secretly in museums for centuries, after all, to negotiate the particulars of The Arrangement away from the prying eyes of their superiors. They had grown quite fond of them. Aziraphale tended to like art museums most of all, with their great works of classical portraiture, and even those with the newer, more abstract displays. Crowley preferred museums of history or the natural world. She claimed this was because she liked to point at the prehistoric specimens and laugh about the ‘joke the paleontologists hadn’t seen yet,’ but Aziraphale knew that was nonsense. Crowley liked to walk through history and remember the people she had met, the events she had seen. The tragedies that had brought the humans to their very knees (as it were), and the triumphs that had humbled even her. She liked to remember this world of humans they had walked through and were only now truly a part of.

The British Museum had recently begun displaying a historical collection from ancient Greece and Rome, and Aziraphale had insisted they go to see it. Crowley had grumbled for the look of the thing, of course, but had driven her angel into London from the South Downs with a little glint of excitement in her eye (and if Aziraphale had insisted mostly because she knew how much her wife would love it, well, she would never tell.) 

They wandered through the exhibits hand-in-hand, occasionally commenting on one piece or another. There were fragments of bowls and utensils that might have been used in the home right alongside works of art and statuettes, marble and obsidian and painted clay. There were preserved pieces of textiles or papyrus, the patterns and words of which had long ago been lost. A rather overenthusiastic guide in one corner regaled a group of tourists about the types of pigments that had been used to paint the larger statues, which made Aziraphale sigh. 

“I’m _so_ glad they’ve got that sorted out.” she said. “It was quite difficult listening to those stuffy museum types talk about the ‘dignified’ statuary of the Greeks knowing full well they were more colorful than a tree at Christmas.” Crowley just hummed in agreement.

Eventually, they came to a large marble bust of a woman, set behind glass, whose face had been chipped away rather badly. Her hair was carved delicately in the rolling style of the time and her eyes were captivating, piercing and present despite the damage. Aziraphale looked at the identification plate. 

“‘Sappho of Eresos-Lesbos,’ Athens, 465 BCE, approximate.” Aziraphale read. “Oh, how lovely! I didn’t realize there were any surviving works of portraiture of Sappho.”

“It’s not quite contemporary with her.” Crowley pointed out. “That’s nearly a hundred years after she died. And she never lived in Athens.”

“True, but it’s likely they would have at least had access to her likeness. Unlike some later depictions.” 

“Hmm.” Crowley acknowledged, gazing down at the bust with an uncharacteristic smile. “Did you ever meet her?”

“No, unfortunately not.” Aziraphale sighed again. “I was in Babylon most of that century dealing with all the unpleasantness there. By the time word of The Poetess reached me, she had passed away.” 

“Can’t say I miss the time when messages had to be passed around hand-to-hand.” Crowley commiserated. “We had a hell of a time keeping in contact then, if I remember correctly.”

“Even carrier pigeons were an improvement, despite the mess.” Aziraphale agreed. She gave Crowley a curious look. “What about you?” 

“Hmm?” Crowley hummed, distractedly. “Oh, yeah. Spent a lot of time in that region then. Greece and Rome were just starting to become places worth being. I saw her perform in Mytilene, and later in Sicily not long before she died.” 

“Oh, that must have been wonderful!” Some of Aziraphale’s jealousy at this must have shown on her face, because Crowley barked out a laugh.

“It _was_ wonderful. World class performances by a poet unparalleled in the modern world, the likes of which will never be seen again. Shame you couldn’t be there.” Aziraphale pouted and pinched her in the arm which made her squirm away, delighted. She laughed. “Oh relax, angel. She was a wonderful poet, yes, and it’s a damn shame more of her work wasn’t preserved. But she was just a human, just like any of them.”

“Not a one of them are _just humans_ and you _know_ it, you old sop.” Aziraphale smothered the urge to smile in a haughty sniff as Crowley’s mischievous grin grew even wider, schooling her expression into something respectable before turning away. She placed her hand primly on Crowley’s arm like a fine Victorian lady to steer them both over to the next display. 

Crowley’s smile was soft, adoring. “No, I suppose they’re not.” 

\-----------------------------------------

“Aha!” The stool she was balanced precariously on began to wobble slightly as Aziraphale extended her reach towards the book she had spotted on a high shelf. She just managed to grab at its spine before the stool tipped completely, depositing her on the ground in a dusty heap with an extremely undignified squawk.

“You alright in there, angel?” Crowley’s concerned voice filtered in through the open door from the sitting room. 

“Quite alright, no need to worry!” She called back, only a bit dazed. She climbed to her feet and brushed herself off, then realized that she had lost the book in the tumble. A few moments of searching found it buried among the small avalanche that had broken her fall. Thankfully, it was none the worse for wear. 

Grinning, she bustled out into the sitting room. Crowley looked up from where she was sprawled across the sofa, a Golden Girls rerun playing quietly on the television. The soft smile that lit up her face when Aziraphale walked in was enough to steal the air from the angel’s lungs, just as it always did, and nearly enough to make her forget what she had been about to say.

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathed, blinking a moment, then: “Oh! Y--yes. I was looking for this.” She held the book up in one hand. “I knew I still had a copy.” 

“What is it?” 

"It's one of my newer acquisitions, actually." She paused. "Well, for a given value of the word 'newer.' It's a collection of Sappho's poems. Fragments mostly, of course. I remember thinking this translator did a particularly excellent job, but I wanted to see what you thought, since you saw Sappho perform. I thought perhaps I could... read them to you."

"You know Sappho would have been accompanying those poems on a lyre, right?" Crowley teased, though her eyes were adoring. "Not sure it'll be quite the same just read out to me like that."

"Seeing as I haven't practiced at the lyre in over two thousand years, I highly doubt you want me to sing them to you." Aziraphale tutted at her until Crowley lifted her feet to allow the angel to sit at the opposite end of the couch, then immediately plopped them back down in the angel's lap with an unrepentant grin. Aziraphale shot her a withering glare that was entirely for the dramatics. She retaliated by propping the book of poems open on top of them, purposefully letting the spine dig in just enough to cause a small amount of discomfort. Her smirk at Crowley's answering huff went, thankfully, without comment. 

"Do you have a favorite?" Aziraphale began, flipping through the pages of the slim volume. “One you remember? We could start with it if you like.”

“One springs to mind.” Crowley said. There was an odd timbre in her voice that made Aziraphale glance up at her curiously, but her face was turned away. “I doubt it’s in there, anyway. Just pick one, and I’ll see if I remember it.”

Aziraphale considered arguing for a moment, but the peculiar tone in Crowley’s voice made her think better of it.

“All right,” she said, running soft fingers down a page, “How about this one: 

You, like a goddess, 

and in your song most of all she rejoiced. 

But now she is conspicuous among Lydian women

as sometimes at sunset

the rosyfingered moon

surpasses all the stars. And her light

stretches over salt sea

equally and flowerdeep fields.

And the beautiful dew is poured out

and roses bloom and frail

chervil and flowering sweetclover.

But she goes back and forth remembering

gentle Atthis and in longing

she bites her tender mind1 .”

"Hmm." Crowley contemplated the poem. She had relaxed back down during the recitation, flowing languidly over the cushions, with her arms stretched carelessly above her head and over the arm of the sofa. It made her t-shirt ride up over her midriff, which gave Aziraphale a tantalizing strip of skin to be distracted by while Crowley thought. “Gets a bit lost in the translation, doesn’t it? But I think that’s more a fault of the language difference than the translator. There was a bit missing at the beginning I think, too, about the Lydian girl. Her tone was captured well, though. Top-notch longing2 .”

Aziraphale hummed, making a quick note on a scrap of paper which she slipped between the pages before flipping around some more. “Alright, here’s another:

Evening you gather back

all that dazzling dawn has put asunder: 

you gather a lamb, gather a kid

gather a child back to its mother1 .”

“Ha! That’s a good one.” Crowley grinned up towards the ceiling, wriggling her toes happily in Aziraphale’s lap. “That’s old Sappho through and through. Always the philosopher. If she’d have lived a couple hundred years later she would have given Socrates and the like a run for their money.”

Aziraphale smiled, enjoying Crowley’s simple joy at recalling the poetess’ works. She made another note, and settled back into the sofa to look for another. She scanned through a few assorted snippets, fragments of longer poems lost to time, before she came to one that gave her pause.

Crowley seemed to sense her hesitation. “Angel?”

“I’m alright.” Aziraphale assured her. She cleared her throat, then began, a little haltingly:

“I want to say something,

but shame prevents me.

Yet if you had a desire for good or beautiful things

and your tongue were not concocting some evil to say,

shame would not hold down your eyes

but rather you would speak about what is just1 .”

Silence hung between them for a moment, the weight of their pasts seeming to settle on their shoulders in the old familiar way. They had learned to chase away some of that weight over the past couple of years together, helping each other carry it in a way that made it lighter for them both, but it always found a way back to haunt them eventually. Perhaps it always would.

"Angel..." Crowley began, tentatively. She pushed herself up onto her elbows.

"It's alright." Aziraphale assured her, soft but honest. "Just reminded that we're not the only ones who lost so much time to things like shame, like... expectations. So much love, lost." 

"Oh, angel." Crowley twisted until she was on her knees on the sofa, careful not to kick her angel as she removed her feet from her lap. She leaned over and placed a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, then her forehead. Her voice was almost pleading. "It just...it just means we have that much more time to make up for, that's all."

Aziraphale nodded and smiled, a little sadly. "Not just for our own sake, I think. Kiss me?" she asked.

"Always," Crowley answered. She pressed her lips to Aziraphale’s softly, chastely, like she was trying to press her love into Aziraphale’s skin directly. It was Aziraphale who deepened the kiss, pressing her tongue to the demon's lips until they parted with a quiet sigh. She set the poems on the side table blindly and brought her hands to grasp at Crowley's hips.

Crowley gasped against her mouth as she was pulled more fully onto Aziraphale’s lap, legs braced on either side of the angel's thighs. She had often expressed amusement that Aziraphale became so hurried when they were like this; putting all of herself into it, making every second count as though Crowley could be ripped away from her at any moment. Aziraphale had asked her once if she minded. Crowley had looked at her as if she had grown a second head and proceeded to ride her into oblivion.

Crowley caught up to the angel’s fervor quickly this time, answering each press of lips and tongue with one of her own, molding herself fully against the angel's body beneath her. 

They kissed like this for a while, Crowley's arms looped around the angel's neck with Aziraphale’s fingers gripping delicious bruises into her hips. They kissed until Crowley's hips began pressing down in a desperate and unmistakable rhythm, seeking friction that was frustratingly impossible to find with her legs braced open, desperate little noises spilling from her lips that lit Aziraphale’s body on fire. 

She pulled back and Crowley chased after her lips endearingly, but got with the program as Aziraphale grasped at the hem of her black t-shirt and pulled it up over her head. They both moaned as Crowley's bare chest was revealed, braless and perfect, her small breasts at just the right height. Aziraphale took full advantage as she dove in, licking around one pert nipple before scraping her teeth across it ever so gently. Crowley threw her head back in bliss. Her long, copper hair tickled at Aziraphale’s nose as she broke off to give the other nipple equal attention. 

Aziraphale would have been perfectly content to stay just like that for hours, pulling those delicious little sounds from her demon's lips, but Crowley seemed to have other ideas. She pushed Aziraphale gently against the back of the sofa and started to tackle the buttons of the angel's blouse, cursing quietly at how numerous and fiddly they were.

"I swear you wear these stupid things on purpose now." Crowley growled, without heat.

Aziraphale’s grin was beatific. "Anticipation makes the acquisition all the sweeter." 

"Bastard." Crowley responded, fondly. She crowed a little in triumph when the last button finally came undone and tossed the blouse away somewhere, kissing away Aziraphale’s instinctual tutting at the treatment of her clothes. 

Aziraphale shivered as Crowley turned her attention to the delicate skin of her neck, following gentle presses of lips with sharp little bites that fell on just the right side of painful. She turned her head to the side to allow Crowley more room, squirming beneath her, and her eyes fell on the book of poetry that sat on the little table next to them. 

“Tell me.” She gasped, sinking her fingers into Crowley’s copper tresses just to have something to hold on to. She tugged on some of the strands accidentally after a particularly sharp nip at the junction of neck and shoulder, causing Crowley to hiss with pleasure.

“Tell you what, angel?” Crowley growled between kisses that were swiftly growing in intensity. “Tell you how beautiful you are, how perfect for me? Tell you how hot you make me?” She reinforced this by working a hand between the press of their bodies, under the waistband of Aziraphale’s skirt and down between her plush thighs. 

Aziraphale’s breath hitched. Her whole body was alight with pleasure already, just having Crowley near her and taking care of her like this, the whole of her thrumming to Crowley’s particular tune. “N--no,” she managed, gasping just as Crowley cupped the warmth of her through her knickers.

Crowley stiffened, starting to pull her hand away immediately. Aziraphale squeaked in protest, closing her legs to try and keep the hand there, trapping it between her thighs before she could even register what was happening. “No, that's not what--don’t stop!” she pleaded. Her lust-addled mind was making it difficult to think, to process.

Crowley met her eyes, searching them with concern for a moment, and seemed to relax again when she found only honesty and need. “Okay. That's not what you wanted to hear?" She continued her ministrations carefully when Aziraphale nodded and relaxed again, massaging lightly at her through the delicate silk of her pants while reaching around with the other hand to undo the clasp of Aziraphale’s bra. “What then?”

“You--the poem.” Aziraphale helpfully shuffled around to help Crowley pull the bra off her shoulders, shuddering pleasantly at the unadulterated lust she found in Crowley’s eyes when her own flickered back to them. She had always felt hopelessly exposed without anything covering her, had always been a little jealous at the shamelessness with which Crowley would strut about without a stitch, but in these moments, the sensation of vulnerability was anything but unpleasant. Crowley’s eyes were hypnotizing, but they were hypnotized in equal measure. “Your favorite. I want to hear it.”

Confusion flickered over Crowley’s face briefly, then amusement. “Is that so, angel?”

“Yes please,” Aziraphale breathed, squirming at the continued slow movements of Crowley's hand between her legs, and watched the demon's amused smile turn downright predatory. 

"Anything for you, angel," Crowley promised. To Aziraphale’s dismay she carefully extricated her hand from between them, swooping in for one last kiss and a quick squeeze of Aziraphale’s ample breasts before she sank from the sofa and onto her knees on the carpet. 

Aziraphale’s breath hitched at the sight. She still wasn't used to this: seeing Crowley on her knees before her, openly adoring, _worshipping_. It made her head spin and her heart ache in all the right ways. It made her _hungry_.

Crowley wasted no time in reaching for the fastening of Aziraphale’s skirt, undoing the two buttons there and encouraging Aziraphale to lift herself up so she could slip both skirt and knickers down her hips. After a moment of apparent deliberation, the white stockings that hugged the angel's legs to the thigh were left in place.

Crowley leaned forward to ghost reverent fingers over the skin of Aziraphale’s bare stomach, following the wandering lines of the stretch marks there from top to rounded bottom. She followed the touches with gentle brushes of her lips. " _You are an Achilles' apple_." Aziraphale watched breathlessly as the words were pressed into her skin, Crowley’s hypnotizing yellow eyes never leaving her own. They kept her pinned to the spot as much as the gently caressing hands. She was _so close_ to where Aziraphale most wanted her, pressing kisses to every inch of skin on her stomach and thighs, avoiding the core of her with a teasing glint in her eye. Aziraphale _hated_ her, and loved her so much she thought she might burst.

“ _Blushing and sweet, poised on a high branch_.” Crowley guided her to put her right leg on her wife’s shoulder. “ _At the very_ tip,” a kiss was pressed to the meat of her inner thigh, making her shudder, “ _of the very tallest tree_.” The other leg was lifted in the same manner, leaving her open and exposed and dripping for her demon. 

“ _You escaped those who would have plucked your fruit._ ” Crowley was so close, Aziraphale could feel her breath stir the golden curls at her groin. She trembled, wanting, waiting. “ _Not that they didn’t try_.” Sharp nails dug suddenly into her thighs as Crowley’s eyes flashed dangerously, possessively, punching an almost wounded sound out of Aziraphale.

“ _No, they could never forget you as you were, poised just beyond their reach_ 3 .” With that she finally, _finally_ buried herself between the angel’s legs. Aziraphale howled and bucked up sharply as the demon licked at her without hesitation, only Crowley’s grip on her keeping her in place. She buried her hands in Crowley’s hair again, trying to ground herself, short nails scraping at Crowley’s scalp. 

“Oh, I love you,” Aziraphale rasped, dizzy and panting. Crowley’s mouth was hot and wet and _perfect_. She licked and nibbled and sucked in all the ways she knew drove Aziraphale wild. Aziraphale could feel herself absolutely soaking Crowley’s chin, but the demon didn’t seem to mind, only moaning and increasing the feverish pace of her mouth as Aziraphale started to babble: “More than anything, really, you’re so-- _oh, Crowley, yes--_ you’re so perfect for me darling, I can’t--”

Crowley sealed her lips over Aziraphale’s clit and _sucked_ , ripping something very close to a scream from the angel’s throat. Aziraphale thrashed, beyond words now, lost entirely to everything in the world but her precious demon and her _wicked_ mouth. Every touch was like being prodded with a live wire, lighting her up from the inside, vaulting her higher into the only kind of Heaven worth having. After some indeterminate amount of time, Crowley let one of her legs drop and used that hand to rub close circles over her clit, bringing her tongue down to instead worm its way inside Aziraphale’s entrance. Aziraphale could feel the moan she let out from the taste and the slickness there down to her very soul. 

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s tongue press up inside of her, so unnaturally long, it hit spots inside of her that made her sob with the overwhelming pleasure. All at once, the fingers pressing insistently at her clit and the tongue teasing along her walls overwhelmed her and she came, hard, throwing her head against the soft back of the sofa as she screamed her release. Crowley gentled almost immediately. She let Aziraphale shudder through her pleasure with deep but gentle motions, slowing progressively over several moments until she stopped entirely. She withdrew carefully, leaving searing kisses along Aziraphale’s plump lips and thighs. Aziraphale looked down at her dizzily. Her mouth and chin were still soaked and her eyes were gazing up with adoration and need as they watched Aziraphale catch her breath.

She was waiting, as she always had, for whatever Aziraphale was willing to give her. Aziraphale wanted to give her _everything._

As soon as her body was done shaking from her release, Aziraphale reached for her. She grabbed Crowley by the arms, causing her to squawk in surprise, and hauled her up to lay back on the sofa with Aziraphale above her. Aziraphale sealed their mouths together immediately, desperate and greedy, moaning at the taste of herself on her wife’s tongue. She reached down and ripped frantically at Crowley’s jeans, practically tearing them off slim hips along with her knickers, moving blindly as she refused to stop kissing her. Once they were off she immediately buried two fingers inside of Crowley, her entrance already so wet and ready that they slid in without resistance. She pumped them in time with their frantic kissing. Crowley moaned and twisted and clutched at her shoulders, already so worked up from pleasuring Aziraphale it was quite clear it wouldn’t take long.

Between kisses Aziraphale whispered to her: “You did so well for me, darling, you’re doing so well... I love you so much, so much, you’re so wet for me, want you so much, come on, I want to see--”

Crowley tensed beneath her, her body going completely taut and her mouth hanging slack against Aziraphale’s as she shuddered through her orgasm. Aziraphale slowed but kept moving, drawing every moan and gasp from her wife’s lips that she could. She kept working on Crowley until the sounds of pleasure turned to sounds of overstimulation and beyond, knowing that Crowley loved it, mindful for any signal to stop that Crowley might give and receiving none. After a minute or two, Crowley stiffened and cried out again and Aziraphale finally withdrew her hand.

They stayed just like that and kissed slowly, languidly, too drunk on love to care that they were sweaty and sticky and damp in slightly uncomfortable places.

Eventually, after what might have been minutes or hours, Crowley’s head fell back against the sofa cushions, eyes lazy with contentment, like a snake in the sun. “I think I might need a shower,” she said, making absolutely no move whatsoever to shift from her position beneath Aziraphale. 

“Make it a bath.”

“Yeah?” Crowley smirked up at her. “Feeling lazy, are we?”

“No.” Aziraphale grinned back. “It’s just much easier to ravish you again when we’re both somewhat horizontal.”

Crowley groaned, huffing a tired laugh at Aziraphale’s voraciousness. “Already, angel? And here I was thinking greed was a sin.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed with an entirely false solemnity, “But diligence is a virtue, and I am nothing if not _diligent_ in my duty.” She pinched Crowley’s thigh when the demon snorted inelegantly at that. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

Crowley shook her head, bubbling with laughter. “Oh, angel. I love you, you know, bastard that you are.”

“And I you, my dear.” Aziraphale leaned down to kiss her again, gently.

Crowley smiled up at her. Her mouth quirked up on one side and she asked, curiously, “Do you want to tell me what all this has been about, angel?”

Aziraphale blinked. “What, a woman can’t make love to her wife when the, ah, spirit takes her, as it were?” 

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you _know_ it, you menace.” Crowley rolled her eyes fondly and finally pushed at Aziraphale’s shoulders so she could sit up. “All the Sappho stuff. You’ve never shown a particular interest before.” 

“No, I suppose not. It was... well, it was seeing her bust at the museum this morning. I was put in mind of that famous fragment of hers, about being remembered.”

Crowley tilted her head to the side, frowning slightly in concentration as she searched her memory. “ _Someone will remember us, I say, even in another time_ 1 ?” 

“That’s the one,” Aziraphale confirmed. “I was thinking about it and it sort of hit me that, well, why not us? You especially. You saw her perform, you remember her works. You remember _her_.”

Crowley’s eyebrows were swiftly climbing to her hairline. “So you were going to, what, have me fill in the blanks in the poems and reintroduce them to the world? Bit of a trick to fool archaeologists with false documents, angel. Even for you.”

“No, no, nothing like that. The majority of her poems have been lost to humanity and that’s just something I’ll have to accept.” She reached out a hand and touched one of the soft locks at Crowley’s shoulder, twisting a curl around her finger distractedly. “But we aren’t limited like they are. We can remember them, remember their mistakes. Their sorrows. I know we can’t change humanity, can’t keep them alive or anything, but--”

“But as long as we’re around, if we remember, they’ll never be truly lost.” Crowley finished for her. Aziraphale nodded, relieved. 

“I sometimes wonder if that’s what you and I were put here for,” Aziraphale said, quietly. “To remember them.”

They both reflected on this in silence for a few long moments. Eventually Crowley shook her head as if to clear it, and stood up from the sofa with a brisk smack to her knees. “A bit too much philosophy for me to deal with right now, I think.” She offered a hand to pull Aziraphale up with her. “Let’s have that bath, angel, and then I’ll take a better look at those poems, see what I can do. Might need to brush up on my ancient Greek.”

Aziraphale smiled radiantly and took her hand, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet before she turned to make her way over to the stairs.

“Oh, and angel?” Aziraphale stopped and looked back at her. Crowley’s smirk was positively _wicked_. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the part where you promised to ravish me again.” She winked and sauntered off ahead, her naked hips swinging tantalizingly.

All of Aziraphale’s attention focused in on them immediately. “Wouldn’t dream of it, my dear,” she said breathily, giddy and beaming, and moved to follow her love up the stairs.

1\. Poem from If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho translated by Anne Carson. Back

2\. “Top-notch longing” is one of my favorite comments that has ever been left on one of my fics and I just had to use it. Back

3\. Poem from monthly journal _Poetry_ , June 1994, translated by Anita George. Modified somewhat by me. Original found here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=38962 Back


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